groceries and did all the buying. He had the six o’clock broadcast every evening and was back before eight. Lola played the part of an invalid. She took many baths, listened to the radio and slept in the afternoons. She sometimes sat on the trailer’s deck and looked through the thinning trees. The woods had become lean and haunted; only the magnolia trees stayed green and waxy like something into and past death.Fishermen drifted past on the river, flicking their long cane poles, drawing in panfish no bigger than a fist. They waved to Lola. She moved the pages of a book hastily and went inside. The place smelled of cigarettes and mice that wouldn’t be trapped. The paneled walls bent to the touch. She felt vulnerable, weakened, as though she were losing something day by day to the outside. She could be shattered. She could be broken. She tried never to go out there, but felt that there was no safety in the fragile trailer. In a storm, the woods creaked and the rain spun down on the roof like hail. She dressed carefully and watched her husband on television and drank wine until he came home. There was nothing to talk about.
“Driving home tonight,” he said, “I saw a dog trotting along the road with a loaf of bread in his mouth.”
One night in November, he told her that they were going to move to Atlanta two weeks before Christmas. “A new station, looking for new talent. A great opportunity,” he said. He had brought home champagne, shrimp and steak. He would make her happy again.
Lola was pale and her face had become rounder and all her muscles ached as though she had been doing violent exercise. She felt as though she were going to fall, even though she was already sitting down. Jim poured her a glass of champagne and went outside to grill the steaks.
That night, she couldn’t sleep. Their bedroom had one small window, useless because blocked by the branches of a sweet gum. It was imprisonment, like living in a cell. Lola heard the animals moving, the earth turning below her until just before dawn and then everything stopped. She walked down the narrow hall and saw the mist moving along the river toward the Gulf and a thin lemon lake of brightness rising from the crimson ground.
Three days later, on Thanksgiving, the hunting season began, with a terrific roar of shotguns throughout the woods around them. It was just after daybreak. Lola trembled and pressed her head beneath the pillow.
“If I go outside,” she said, “they’ll shoot at me. Just for sport.”
Jim was horrified. “Don’t be ridiculous. What a terrible thing to say!” He pulled away the pillow and stroked her face. “They’re not allowed to shoot across a road,” he said.
“They hit pets and automobiles and clothes drying on the line and the women hanging up the clothes,” she said calmly. “You hear about it all the time.”
“Lola, they are not going to shoot at you!”
She shook her head and watched him, waiting for something else. When he didn’t say anything right away, she got up and began to dress. The firing became more insistent and varied, rhythmless and roaming. The woods were foggy and like stone, and she imagined them calm and gaining strength from the hammering, converting it to a black and surly energy of their own that would be deployed someday, against her, against everyone.
Jim said, “It’s always bad on opening day. It won’t be like this again. The boys get bored or discouraged and the hunting slacks off, you’ll see.”
Beyond the trees, the river smoked. “I don’t care,” she shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me. I never go outside.” The woods had no power and made no sense. One could always cut everything down.
Of course, Jim had told her the truth. In the days that followed there were only scattered shots early in the morning and then a silence so intense that Lola felt she would never recover from it, not even in Atlanta.
Early in December, she began boxing dishes and cleaning out
“Driving home tonight,” he said, “I saw a dog trotting along the road with a loaf of bread in his mouth.”
One night in November, he told her that they were going to move to Atlanta two weeks before Christmas. “A new station, looking for new talent. A great opportunity,” he said. He had brought home champagne, shrimp and steak. He would make her happy again.
Lola was pale and her face had become rounder and all her muscles ached as though she had been doing violent exercise. She felt as though she were going to fall, even though she was already sitting down. Jim poured her a glass of champagne and went outside to grill the steaks.
That night, she couldn’t sleep. Their bedroom had one small window, useless because blocked by the branches of a sweet gum. It was imprisonment, like living in a cell. Lola heard the animals moving, the earth turning below her until just before dawn and then everything stopped. She walked down the narrow hall and saw the mist moving along the river toward the Gulf and a thin lemon lake of brightness rising from the crimson ground.
Three days later, on Thanksgiving, the hunting season began, with a terrific roar of shotguns throughout the woods around them. It was just after daybreak. Lola trembled and pressed her head beneath the pillow.
“If I go outside,” she said, “they’ll shoot at me. Just for sport.”
Jim was horrified. “Don’t be ridiculous. What a terrible thing to say!” He pulled away the pillow and stroked her face. “They’re not allowed to shoot across a road,” he said.
“They hit pets and automobiles and clothes drying on the line and the women hanging up the clothes,” she said calmly. “You hear about it all the time.”
“Lola, they are not going to shoot at you!”
She shook her head and watched him, waiting for something else. When he didn’t say anything right away, she got up and began to dress. The firing became more insistent and varied, rhythmless and roaming. The woods were foggy and like stone, and she imagined them calm and gaining strength from the hammering, converting it to a black and surly energy of their own that would be deployed someday, against her, against everyone.
Jim said, “It’s always bad on opening day. It won’t be like this again. The boys get bored or discouraged and the hunting slacks off, you’ll see.”
Beyond the trees, the river smoked. “I don’t care,” she shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me. I never go outside.” The woods had no power and made no sense. One could always cut everything down.
Of course, Jim had told her the truth. In the days that followed there were only scattered shots early in the morning and then a silence so intense that Lola felt she would never recover from it, not even in Atlanta.
Early in December, she began boxing dishes and cleaning out
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